Episode 21: Wrongful Death
by heisey
Summary: How do you find someone with a motive for murder, when the victim has no friends, or enemies?
1. Chapter 1

**Episode 21: "Wrongful Death"**

_Day One_

_Scene One_

Jim woke up early – it felt early, anyway. Christie's deep, even breaths told him she was still asleep beside him. Not wanting his talking clock to wake her, he felt around on the night stand for his watch and opened its crystal to check the time: 5:40 a.m. He lay back down and reached out to stroke Christie's hair. He knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, but he resisted the temptation to wake Christie and tell her what he was thinking. Both of them, especially Christie, had been working long hours recently. He was beginning to think their only time together – at least, the only time when both of them were awake – was during their weekly couples therapy sessions with Dr. Cohen. They seemed to be falling back into the pattern of separate lives which had almost destroyed their marriage. He resolved to do something about that. One way or another, he would make sure they spent some time together over the coming weekend.

Jim was tying his tie when Christie came into the bedroom, fully dressed and ready to leave for work. "Hey," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, yourself," Jim replied, smiling at her.

"Something's come up at work," she began hesitantly.

"What's that?"

"Clay has put me in charge of a big spread on some of the Paris collections coming out next week. Two other editors and I are going over for the shows. We're leaving Friday night. I'll be back on Wednesday."

"Who're you going with?"

"Not Clay, if that's what you're asking. He's not going," Christie replied, sharply.

"Just wondering."

"As I said, I'm going with two other editors, Jessica Winters and Brad Christiansen. I don't think you've met either of them."

"Who's this Brad?"

"You're not jealous, are you?" Christie asked, laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Brad's gay," she explained, walking out of the bedroom.

"Oh." Jim finished tying his tie in silence, then went into the living room, where Christie was packing up her briefcase. "You really have to go? I mean, it has to be you?"

"Yes, Jimmy, I'm in charge," she told him firmly. As she closed her briefcase, she wondered what Jim was trying to tell her. "You're not worried about being on your own while I'm gone, are you?" she asked, in a gentler voice.

Jim bristled. "No, of course not. Forget it."

"Jimmy, look, this assignment is a huge opportunity. If I pull it off, it could open a lot of doors for me. You're not the only one with a career, you know. This is my career, and it's as important to me as yours is to you. You need to remember that."

"OK, OK," he replied irritably, with a wave of his hand.

Christie picked up her briefcase and walked quickly toward the front door, her high heels tapping on the hardwood floor. "I have to leave right now, or I'll be late for the planning meeting. We can talk more tonight, if I don't get home too late." She was out the door before Jim could respond.

_Scene Two_

Jim had just settled in at his desk with a cup of coffee when Fisk strode out of his office. "We got a DOA," he said, handing a slip of paper to Karen. "Russo and Selway will met you there."

"Sorry, Hank," Jim said to the German Shepherd, "time to go to work." He took hold of the dog's harness and followed Karen out of the squad.

"Tom and Marty are here already," Karen whispered to Jim when they arrived at the DOA's apartment. They walked into the living room, where the two detectives were talking to a uniformed officer while looking intently at the prone form of the DOA lying on the floor under a window. All three of them were holding handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses. They looked up when Jim and Karen approached. Jim pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to Karen. "No, thanks," she said, pulling a package of tissues from her bag.

"What've we got?" Karen asked.

"Dan Hoffman, 43 years old, the only tenant of the apartment," Marty replied. "Looks like multiple stab wounds. One of the neighbors noticed the smell and called it in. He's been dead a while."

While Marty was talking, Karen looked around the apartment. "It looks like there was a major struggle," she told Jim, "blinds and curtains were pulled down, a couple of tables and chairs overturned, lots of blood on the walls, floor, and furniture. What's that?" she asked Marty, pointing at a piece of paper on the floor next to the victim's body.

"A drawing of some kind."

"What kind?" Jim asked. Marty frowned impatiently.

Karen took a few steps closer to the victim, to get a better look at the drawing before answering. "From here, it looks like a drawing of the 'Blind Justice' figure. It's a pretty good drawing, like the person who did it knew how to draw." Marty gestured to her to hurry up. Karen ignored him and continued, "It's not the 'Blind Justice' figure, exactly. She's not wearing a blindfold, and her sword is stuck in the chest of a person lying at her feet. The person on the ground looks something like our DOA."

"Which means," Marty explained, gesturing at the victim, "this guy pissed off someone, big time."

"Yeah," Jim agreed, nodding. "Let's get started on a canvass, see if any of the neighbors saw anything, or knows why someone would be pissed off enough to do this." He gestured in the general direction of the DOA.

_Scene Three_

Back at the squad two hours later, Marty tossed his coat onto his chair in frustration. "How can someone live in a place for two years, and not know anyone?"

Fisk came out of his office. "What've you got?"

"Not much, boss," Tom answered. "The guy was like some kind of hermit or somethin'. Super said he moved in about two years ago, after getting divorced. He worked in IT at a big brokerage house. People saw him coming and going, to and from work, but he never really talked to anyone. Maybe 'hello' or 'good morning,' but that was all. None of the neighbors ever noticed anyone coming to visit him, either."

"There's something else that's strange, boss," Karen added. "The guy's apartment was really bare. I mean, he had the usual furniture and stuff, but there was nothing personal in it. There were no pictures or mementoes to tell us anything about him. The whole place was just – impersonal."

"Well, maybe that tells us what kind of guy he was," Marty observed.

"Could be."

"Where are you going from here?" Fisk asked.

"I'll run him for priors, then we'll check out his work," Tom answered. "Maybe someone there knows him better than his neighbors."

Jim spoke up. "We should look into the ex-wife, too. The nearest and dearest are always candidates, in my book."

"Yeah," Fisk agreed. "Hit it."

After Fisk returned to his office, and Marty and Tom disappeared down the hall, Jim turned to Karen. "Are we alone?"

"Yes." She scooted her chair toward him.

"What you said a minute ago – about the guy's apartment being bare and impersonal – you need to tell me that kind of thing," he told her in a harsh whisper. "Dammit, Karen, I can't do my job if you keep information from me."

Karen recoiled. "I didn't keep anything from you. I didn't think of it until just now, when Tom was talking about no one knowing the guy. It didn't seem important before."

Jim gave a frustrated sigh and waved his hand. "OK. I understand. But you gotta tell me these things. Let _me_ decide what's important."

"All right." Karen rolled her chair back to her own desk and looked at her partner thoughtfully. She thought she'd learned what Jim needed from her in order to do the job. But sometimes, like now, she still found it difficult to imagine what it was like for him – spending his work days moving through an unseen world, interacting with faceless people he would never see.

_Scene Four_

Jim and Hank followed Karen up the stairs to the front door of the small house in Flushing which was the last known address of Hoffman's ex-wife, Sheila. A man opened the door in response to Karen's knock. He was large, well over six feet tall, and heavily-built. His dark hair was cropped short. He hadn't shaved in at least three days. A beer belly overflowed the belt line of his faded jeans. His lower arms, visible below his shirt sleeves, were covered by smeared, bluish tattoos that looked like prison "tats." "Yeah?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Detectives Bettancourt and Dunbar," Karen answered, showing him her badge.

He did a double-take as he looked at Jim. "This is some kind of joke, right?" Karen glanced at Jim, but as usual, his impassive expression did not betray any reaction to the comment.

"No joke," Jim assured him, pulling out his badge. "We're looking for Sheila Hoffman."

"She ain't here," the man replied. "And she don't use that name no more, either. She went back to Sheila Murray."

"And you are?" Karen asked.

"Ken Murray, her brother."

"Where's your sister, Mr. Murray?" Jim asked.

"What's this about?" Murray demanded.

"Where's your sister?" Jim repeated, raising his voice.

"In Florida," Murray replied. "Why are you asking about her?"

Jim ignored the question. "How long has she been there?"

"Since last week – Wednesday, I think. Our mom lives down there now, and she's been in the hospital. Sheila went down to stay with her after she came home."

"Can anyone verify that?" Karen asked.

"Look," Murray asserted, "I answered your questions, so now you answer mine. What's this about?"

"All right," Karen told him. "Her ex-husband, Dan Hoffman, was found stabbed to death in his apartment this morning."

"And you think Sheila – ?" Murray began, disbelievingly.

"We don't suspect anyone," said Karen, "we're just trying to find out who might have wanted to kill him."

"Oh, hell, you might as well come in," said Murray, stepping back from the doorway to allow them to enter. They stepped into a dark, over-crowded room that smelled of mold and dust. Even though Jim had Hank with him, Karen stepped to his right side to guide him to a chair. "Sorry about the mess," Murray said apologetically, "it's all Sheila's crap."

Karen wrinkled her nose as she sat on the edge of a chair. "I understand Sheila and Dan divorced about two years ago," she began. "Was it amicable?"

"As amicable as any divorce could be, I guess," Murray replied. "She wanted out, and he didn't fight it. The guy was – well, there was just nothin' to him, you know, no life in him. I was glad to see her dump him. Sheila was always – lively, you know, but being with him just sucked the life out of her. She's better off without him."

"Do you know of anyone who had a problem with him, anyone who had it in for him?" Jim asked.

Murray shook his head. "You're not gettin' it. The guy was a nothin' – there wasn't nothin' there for anyone to get mad at. I was glad to see him out of Sheila's life, sure, but he just wasn't the kinda guy that would get anyone riled up. There was just – nothin'."

"We're going to need Sheila's number in Florida," Karen said, handing Murray a notepad and a pen. When he finished writing and returned the pad and pen, she turned to Jim. "We done here?"

Jim nodded. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Murray."

_Scene Five_

"We confirmed the ex-wife has been in Florida since last week," Jim told Fisk, who was sitting on the desk opposite his. "But her brother is worth looking into."

"Yeah," Karen concurred. "We ran his record, and he has a couple of DWIs, plus an aggravated assault he did prison time for." She turned to Jim. "I told you his tattoos looked like prison 'tats'."

"Did I disagree?" he asked, dryly, throwing up his hands. Marty snickered.

Fisk smiled briefly, then got the discussion back on track. "What did you find out at Hoffman's work?"

"Same old, same old," Tom told him. "The guy kept to himself, never talked to anyone, just showed up and did his job. His boss called him a 'cipher.' No problems with anyone at work. No one knows any reason anyone would have to kill him, or anyone who would want to. They didn't even notice he wasn't at work on Monday."

"How can anyone live like that, with no connection to other people?" Marty demanded.

Fisk shrugged. "Who knows? So where are we going with this?"

"We need to look into the brother-in-law some more, see if he can account for his whereabouts," Tom replied. "What does the ME say about time of death?"

"We don't know yet," Fisk told him, "ME's office is backed up."

Karen spoke up. "I don't know about the brother-in-law. It seemed like he didn't have a problem with the DOA once he was out of his sister's life. Where's the motive?"

"Maybe the DOA was trying to get back into his sister's life," Marty suggested.

"Maybe."

"Check it out," Fisk directed them, "and find out if he can account for his whereabouts, when we know the time of death." He turned to Jim. "Any ideas, Jim?"

Jim pressed his lips together, thinking, "Yeah. Maybe we need to go at this from a different angle. We've been looking at the victim. Maybe we need to look at this from the angle of the perp."

"But how, Jim?" Karen protested. "We have no idea who it could be."

"That's true," Jim conceded. "But we do know something about him. The drawing he left at the scene – assuming the perp left it there – tells us the motive is revenge. And the drawing's a pretty distinctive signature. What if he's going after other people?"

"So what are you suggesting, Jim?" Fisk asked.

"Let's check around, see if there are any other homicides – or any crimes – where this drawing or something similar has shown up. It might give us a place to start."

"Oh, great," said Marty sarcastically, "the blind guy's gonna look into a _picture_."

Fisk frowned. "Marty, please. Tom, Marty, you follow up on the brother-in-law. Jim, Karen, you check out the drawing."

_Scene Six_

Jim was standing at his locker, gathering his belongings and getting ready to head home, when he heard someone enter the locker room. "Hello?" he asked, wishing people would speak up and identify themselves.

"Hey, Jim," Marty answered. "Long day, huh?"

"Sure was," Jim agreed. He closed his locker but remained standing in front of it, thinking. He took a deep breath and turned toward Marty. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"What d'you mean?" Marty asked.

"C'mon, Marty, don't be cute. You've been on my case for the past week. What's up?"

"Nothin', forget it."

"Something's bugging you. Just spit it out."

"You don't want to know."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

From his vantage point next to his own locker, Marty studied his blind squad mate for a moment before deciding to answer him. "You know, Jim, this whole situation sucks."

Jim looked puzzled and said nothing.

"If things were – different . . . I mean, I respect the fact that you can clear cases, don't get me wrong. And I know you're a stand-up guy. Hell, sometimes I even think I could get to like you – eventually. But – "

"But what?"

"Hasn't it ever occurred to you how lucky we've all been, the last nine months, with you going out there every single day? How long is our luck going to hold, d'you think?"

"So that's it." Jim bowed his head.

"Yeah, that's it," Marty confirmed. "We got a major wake-up call when that crazy guy came after you with a knife. Maybe we need to pay attention. I mean, it's not like you have to prove anything anymore, you know."

Jim turned toward him with a questioning expression. "You mean that?"

"Yeah. I admit, when you first showed up here, I thought it was some kind of stunt. I figured you wouldn't last, and the problem would take care of itself."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Jim said with a wry grin.

"Seriously, Jim," Marty went on, "you don't need to go out in the field to do your thing. Why not stay here and let the rest of us do the legwork?"

"Is that what you'd do, in my situation?"

"I – I – don't know," Marty stammered, relieved that Jim couldn't see the pained expression on his face. "But I do know this. If I was in your situation, and something happened to any of us – especially Karen – because of it, I couldn't live with it. You couldn't, either."

Jim sighed heavily. "I hear what you're saying, and I know where you're coming from – really. But I can't do what you're asking."

"Can't? Or won't?"

Instead of answering, Jim turned away and walked toward the door. Just before he reached the door, he stopped and turned back to face Marty, "There is one thing – "

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You don't need to remind me I can't see. I know." He grasped the door handle and walked away before Marty could respond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Episode 21: "Wrongful Death"**

_Day Two_

_Scene One_

Jim hung up the phone, looking frustrated.

"Anything?" Karen asked.

"No." He cracked his neck and stood up. "I need a break," he told her. "You want any coffee?"

"No, thanks, I'm good."

Jim made his way down the hall to the locker room, where he poured a cup of coffee and sat next to the window at the far end of the room. He usually managed to leave "home" at home, but today, thoughts of the unresolved situation with Christie kept intruding. There had been no chance for them to talk last night. It was after ten when she finally got home. As she chatted excitedly about her upcoming trip to Paris, Jim realized she was going purely on nervous energy. After a glass of wine, she unwound enough to come to bed and, eventually, fall into an exhausted sleep beside him. In the morning, she was up early and ready to leave by the time he got out of the shower. On her way out the door, she hurriedly asked him to call Dr. Cohen and re-schedule their weekly appointment. Then she was gone.

"Jim?" Karen interrupted his reverie. "We got something."

Jim put aside his thoughts of Christie. "What is it?" he asked, standing up.

"A cop in the 1-7 took a report from a lawyer about a threatening letter. It had a drawing of 'Blind Justice' that sounds like the one at our homicide scene. He's faxing it over right now."

Jim followed Karen into the squad room. Karen drummed her fingers on the desk as they waited at the fax machine for the letter to come through. She grabbed it from the machine as soon as it finished printing. Jim shifted impatiently as she read it. "Well?" he asked.

"Sorry, Jim, I'm still reading."

"What about the drawing?" he demanded.

"It looks a lot like the one at our DOA's."

"What's it say?" Jim asked.

"I'm still reading – it's two pages," Karen explained, understanding Jim's impatience. After a moment, she said, "I'm done."

"Give me the highlights."

"Well, whoever wrote this is definitely out for revenge. There's something about a child's death and 'justice denied.' He says the people responsible won't escape, and if he can't get justice in the courts, there are other ways. He also says something I don't understand. I'll read it, 'This will be another Judge Lefton and end up on TV.' What's that about?"

Jim shook his head. "I have no idea. Let's tell the boss and contact this lawyer."

_Scene Two_

Jim and Karen stood up when the door to the law firm's conference room opened. A burly man of about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair, entered. "Detectives?" he said in a booming voice, "Bob Cromwell. Sorry to keep you waiting. Judge Meyer insists on doing things on his own timetable."

Jim extended a hand. "Jim Dunbar." Cromwell took his hand. "This is my partner, Karen Bettancourt."

"This is about the letter I received?" Cromwell asked.

"That's right," Jim confirmed. "We're looking into the possibility it's related to a homicide we're investigating. The victim was Dan Hoffman. Does that name mean anything to you?"

The color drained from Cromwell's face. "Oh, my God. He was a juror on a case I tried a couple of months ago – _that_ case." He gestured to the copy of the threatening letter on the conference table in front of him.

Karen spoke up. "OK, let's start at the beginning. Who do you think sent this?"

"Anton Belski. He and his wife Davida were the plaintiffs in a wrongful death case I tried two months ago. I do civil trial work, mainly medical malpractice defense."

"You said it was a wrongful death case – who died?" Jim asked.

"Their ten-year-old son, Rudi," Cromwell replied. Jim bowed his head.

"Tell us about the case," Karen said, looking somber.

"OK. Rudi got sick – with flu-like symptoms – a few days before he died. In 99.9 per cent of cases, that's what it is – some kind of flu-like illness. When he didn't get better, the parents took him to the free clinic in their neighborhood. The family didn't have health insurance. Anton fancied himself an artist and didn't have a steady job. Davida supported the family by working as a secretary for a construction company, but she didn't get any benefits. Anyway, the doctor at the clinic thought it was some type of flu and, as I said, in almost all cases, that's what it is. The next day, Rudi was a lot sicker, so they took him to the ER. By that time, it was obvious he didn't have an ordinary flu bug. The ER doc called in my client – a pediatric infectious disease specialist – who diagnosed the child as having necrotizing fasciitis, commonly known as 'flesh-eating bacteria.' They treated Rudi aggressively, but it was too late. The infection was too overwhelming. He died the next day." Cromwell shook his head. "Poor kid."

"Sad," Jim agreed. "What happened at the trial?"

"Well, I was surprised the case even got to trial. It was a tragic case, but there simply wasn't any negligence. The Belskis' lawyer found some hack to testify as their expert witness, but it was obvious he didn't know what he was talking about. The jury saw right through him. They came back with a unanimous defense verdict in less than two hours."

"So you got a win," Jim observed.

"Yeah," Cromwell agreed, "not the kind of win you take a lot of pleasure in but a win, nonetheless. And now . . . you know, I was the one who wanted Dan Hoffman on the jury. I never imagined, when we were picking that jury, that it would come to – this."

"And you think Anton Belski is the author of this letter – why?" Karen asked.

"Several reasons. The letter refers to his child's death, and this is the only case I've tried recently that involves the death of a child. Also, as I mentioned, Anton's an artist – at least, he thinks he is, and the drawing looks pretty professional to me. And did you notice the reference to Judge Lefton?"

"Yes," Karen replied, "what does that mean?"

"Judge Jean Lefton, a judge in Chicago, came home one night and found her husband and her elderly mother murdered. The killer was the plaintiff in a medical malpractice case which she dismissed."

"So where can we find Belski?" Jim asked.

Cromwell shook his head. "I don't know his present whereabouts. His attorney may know where he is." He picked up a piece of paper and looked at it. "After I got your call, we put together a list of everyone associated with the case. I have the address in Washington Heights where the Belskis were living at the time of the trial, but I don't know if they're still there. The wife's employer's name and address are on here, too. It also has the names of all the jurors I could remember or find in my trial notes." He held out the list to Jim, looking surprised when Jim didn't take it.

Karen took the list and looked it over. "You don't have the jurors' addresses or phone numbers?"

"No, juror information is confidential. You'll have to get that from the court."

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Cromwell," Jim told him, "we'll be in touch." He and Karen stood up and started to leave.

"Detectives?" Cromwell stopped them. "This guy is dangerous, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," Jim replied gravely, turning toward him.

"What should I do, to protect my family and myself?"

"Well, we can't make any promises," Jim told him. "But now we know the people who are at risk, we'll talk to our boss when we get back to the precinct. And there are some common-sense things you can do – vary your routines, be aware of your surroundings, try to avoid places where you know he can find you – "

"Like here?" Cromwell interrupted.

"Yes. Ideally, you might want to consider leaving the city until we have him in custody."

"I can't do that," Cromwell remonstrated, "I have a trial starting day after tomorrow."

"Well, then, be _very_ careful." Jim paused for a moment, then added. "There is one other thing you could do to help us out."

"Yes, of course," Cromwell replied, "what is it?"

"You could fax that list to our boss, while we're on our way back downtown. We'll call and let him know it's coming."

"Here's the fax number," Karen said, handing Cromwell her business card.

"Consider it done," Cromwell said.

"Thanks." Jim took Karen's arm as they walked out of the room.

_Scene Three_

Fisk emerged from his office as soon as he saw Jim and Karen returning to the squad. "We got the jurors' contact information from the Jury Commissioner, and we're getting the word out to the precincts where they live, to check up on them and warn them. Oh, and we finally heard from the ME. Cause of death on Hoffman was exsanguination from multiple stab wounds from some kind of weapon with a double-edged blade, like a dagger or small sword. He had been dead at least 36 hours when he was found. So he was probably killed sometime over the weekend."

"Any word on Belski's whereabouts?" Jim asked.

"We got in touch with the landlord of the building in Washington Heights," Tom replied. "Belski hasn't moved, as far as the landlord knows, and his rent is paid through the end of the month."

"The super said he hasn't seen either of them for several days," Marty added, "but it's a pretty good-sized building, and he doesn't keep tabs on the tenants' comings and goings. I also contacted the wife's work, but she hasn't shown up the last couple of days, and there was no answer when her boss called her."

"OK, then, let's pay Mr. Belski a visit," Jim said, standing up and taking hold of Hank's harness.

"I'll call the 3-3 and have a couple of uniforms meet you there," Fisk told them.

"But, boss – " Jim protested. Marty shook his head disgustedly.

Fisk cut him off. "No 'buts' about it, Jim. I wouldn't let _any_ of my detectives go in there without back-up."

Jim nodded. "All right." He ordered Hank forward and followed Karen out of the squad.

_Scene Four_

Jim and Karen approached the Belski apartment, followed by two uniformed officers. "This is it," Karen told them. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder, calling out, "Anton Belski! Police! Open the door!" When there still was no response, one of the uniformed officers looked a question at her. She nodded and stepped back. Both of the uniformed officers ran at the door, attempting to break it open, but the door held.

"Son of a bitch," the taller one said. "I think he's got something pushed up against the door."

From inside the apartment, a woman's voice screamed, "He's got – "

"Mrs. Belski?" Karen called out, but there was no response.

"Damn," Jim said, "He's barricaded himself in."

"Yeah," Karen agreed, "and his wife's a hostage." She reached for her phone. "I'm calling the boss. We need to call in SWAT and the hostage team. Let's start clearing the building."

_Scene Five_

Three hours later, Belski was still barricaded in his apartment. In the SWAT command post, Jim closed his phone, muttering, "Son of a bitch."

"What is it?" Karen asked.

"That was the lieutenant. We've got another dead juror. Emma Goldschmidt, a retired school teacher. Same m.o. as Hoffman – multiple stab wounds and the same drawing. Looks like she was killed sometime over the weekend, too."

"Oh, no."

"Good news is, they've located the other jurors, and they're all OK."

"Thank God."

They listened as the SWAT commander, Joe Marchetti, and the lead negotiator, Ted Yamada, continued discussing their strategy. It was obvious they'd had the same debate before. "Look, Ted," Marchetti declared, "it's been over two hours, and the guy is refusing all contact. You can't negotiate with someone won't communicate with you. Besides, the only person who might be able to get him to talk is in there with him. We need to go in and get him."

"I don't think you should do that, not yet," Yamada protested. "The guy isn't crazy, you know. We need to give him enough time to figure out that he doesn't have any options."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Marchetti replied, "what he'll do when he figures that out." He turned to his second-in-command. "Tell the team to get into position."

Yamada picked up the phone. After several minutes, he put it down, shaking his head. "Still no answer. I'll try the bullhorn again," he said, picking up the horn and walking toward the door. Before he reached the door, there was a single gunshot from inside the apartment building, followed by a woman's scream.

Marchetti ordered his team to move in, but before they could do so, a woman leaned out of the front window of the Belski apartment, screaming for help. "What happened?" Yamada asked, using the bullhorn. "He shot himself!" she screamed.

_Scene Six_

Jim was seated across the table from Davida Belski when Karen entered the interview room. She was carrying a cup of tea, which she handed to Davida. "Here you go," she murmured.

"Thank you." Davida's thin face was pale and drawn, and her dark brown hair fell limply to her shoulders. Her hand shook slightly as she picked up the cup, but she steadied herself as she raised it to her lips and drank.

"Are you OK to talk about what happened?" Karen asked gently. Davida nodded. "Yes," Karen said, for Jim's benefit.

Davida set the cup down and looked at Karen, standing at the end of the table. Then she said, "That son of a bitch. I hope he rots in hell."

Karen looked at Jim. His expression was as shocked as hers. "Davida – " she began.

Davida interrupted her. "You heard right," she said firmly. "He was a no-good bastard."

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" Karen suggested, sitting down next to Jim.

Davida took a deep breath. "When Rudi – " her voice broke when she spoke the name of her dead son. She took a sip of tea and began again, in a stronger voice, "When Rudi died, Anton blamed me. He said it was my fault – because I didn't have health insurance with my job, and I didn't make enough for us to afford it."

Watching with Fisk and Tom from the observation room, Marty muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Davida continued, "Then he decided to do the lawsuit. It wasn't because of Rudi. He didn't care that Rudi . . . died. He only cared about the money. He said they owed him, and when they paid, he'd never have to work again." Her lower lip quivered, and she took another sip of her tea.

"Then you lost the trial," Karen prompted. Davida nodded. "What happened then?"

"He wouldn't let it go," Davida said. "He said if they wouldn't pay money for what they did, they would have to pay some other way. I didn't know what he was doing a lot of the time. Sometimes he would be gone for days. . . ."

"Do you know where he was this past weekend?" Karen asked.

Davida shook her head. "No. All he said was, he got 'partial payment.' Then he wouldn't let me go to work yesterday or today. He said I had to stay home."

"Did he say why?"

"No, he wouldn't tell me when I asked. But isn't it obvious? He wanted to use me when the police came. And he did."

"So what happened this afternoon?" Karen asked.

"Anton was looking out the window and saw you coming. He pushed a dresser up against the door so you couldn't get in. I told him I wanted to leave, the police didn't want me. That's when he pulled out the gun and told me I wasn't going anywhere. After all the other police arrived, I kept talking to him, telling him he had to give himself up, he wasn't going to escape. He believed me, I guess. That's when he started talking about – you know, ending it." She took a deep breath and sipped her tea. "I'm not gonna lie to you, I didn't try to talk him out of it. I couldn't take it any more." She bowed her head, covering her face with her hands.

"I think we're done," Karen told her. "Is there anyone we can call for you?"

Davida looked up. "My sister lives in Queens. I can stay with her."

Karen handed her a pad and pen. "Give us the address, and we'll have an officer take you there. You can wait here."

"Thank you."

Back at his desk, Jim brought a hand up to his mouth, thinking. Karen gave him a knowing look. "I know that look," she said, "something's on your mind. Spill it."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I was just thinking – what if Davida 'helped' her husband shoot himself?"

"You want to test her for gunshot residue?" Karen asked.

Jim shook his head. "Nope. You?"

"No."

_Scene Seven_

"Jimmy?" Christie called from the entry.

"Over here," Jim answered from the couch, where he'd spent the hour since he got home from work, drinking beer and decompressing.

She sat next to him and kissed him. "How was your day?" she asked.

"We cleared our homicide," he told her.

"Good, that's good," she said, distractedly. "I wish I could say we're ready for Paris, but we're not."

"Let me get you a glass of wine," he offered.

"Bless you."

Jim returned from the kitchen with a glass of wine and held it out to Christie. After she took it, he sat down next to her. "You know, Christie, I've been thinkin' . . . ," he began.

She turned toward him. "Yes?"

"I miss seeing you."

"Oh, Jimmy," she said, her voice catching in her throat.

He shook his head at her misunderstanding. "No, no, I don't mean _seeing_ seeing – well, I miss that, too, but that's not what I meant."

"What is it, then?" she asked, puzzled.

Jim paused, biting his lip. "I miss _you_. We've both been working so much lately, we've hardly seen each other."

"Jimmy, I – " she began.

"Look, I know you have to do this Paris thing. But when you get back, I want to take you out on a real date – just you and me, Hank stays home. You can tell me all about Paris." He smiled at her and took her hand. "So what do you say, Mrs. Dunbar, will you go out on a date with me?"

"Yes, I'd like that," she whispered, smiling back at him and putting her head on his shoulder.


End file.
